


The Blue Death (A Witcher Plague Tale)

by CelticBabs13



Series: The Witcher - Something More [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 2020 was a hellish year, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, COVID-19 Inspired, Ciri and Geralt are married - DEAL WITH IT, Curse Breaking, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Helpful Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sexual Themes, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Why Did I Write This?, Writer's Block, have no idea where i'm going with this, help me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticBabs13/pseuds/CelticBabs13
Summary: This SL continues a year after The Witcher-Something More where Ciri birthed the prophesied "Destroyer of Worlds." Set in the aftermath of the 3rd Nilfgaardian War, Emperor Emhyr now rules the Northern Kingdoms devastated by war, natural disasters and yes, a plague more deadlier than the Catriona.The first 4ish chapters, written in the summer of 2020, were inspired by the events of the COVID19 pandemic. It brought me comfort translating that horrible year into the witcher universe. Geralt gave me strength to survive it. But the summary sounds gloomier than the story really is. It's a Witcher's tale of lifting curses, a missing person, helpful and loyal Geralt amidst an epidemic.***Best after reading "The Witcher-Something More" novel:Link textFor those who don't want to read the novel-length SL - Ciri and Geralt are married and have a child together.This is a WIP (won't be updating too regularly). Please let me know if there is interest in continuing this story.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: The Witcher - Something More [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1196686
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

****** **

CDPR Official The Witcher 3 - Blood & Wine DLC screenshot created by paluccimeister

**CHAPTER 1**

**Corvo Bianco Vineyard, Toussaint**

**Velen (autumn), 1274**

  
  


If he gives the same report one more time…

Clamping her lips tight, Ciri stood upon the hill overlooking the estate and bustling vineyards watching Barnabas Basil, or BB, as Geralt had always called him, climb the natural made steps up the hill. The brightness of the yellow morning sun shone off his smooth bald head and glinted off the metal of the rounded spectacles perched on his aristocratic nose. With soft treads, he rounded the large tree that graced the top of the hill, pausing a few spans away. Pushing the spectacles up higher, he waited with hands clasped before him and head bowed for acknowledgement before speaking. Always so formal. 

Her son sat on a blanket in the shade of the large tree happily chewing on a fabric toy knight depicting one of the royal guards. Chessa, the herbalist from Yantra turned Yennefer’s assistant and friend, sat beside him. He was of the age that one shouldn’t take their eyes off him for even a moment.

He’d better have different news, this time. 

Without turning towards him, she breathed in deep the rich ripeness of many varieties of grapes mingled with wood smoke coiling from the chimneys in the chill of the autumn morning air. “BB...,” using his casual name as Geralt had given him, her voice faltered. Stopping herself from saying anything more, she swallowed through the tightness closing her throat. Her fingers, with a mind of their own, gripped the cool silver wolf-head medallion resting between her breasts as if the pendant brought comfort and signified a mystical or psychic connection between her and her husband. She’d been doing that a lot lately. The necklace, identical to the one he wore and used to belong to Vesemir, meant everything to her. Especially after Geralt had retrieved it from the crone who had stolen it not so long ago and gifted it back to her the night of their son’s birth. Its gentle yet constant rhythmic pulsating against her skin brought an odd sort of comfort. 

“My lady…” Barnabas prompted in a soft voice.

She raised a hand, effectively communicating her need for silence. He obeyed, like a great majordomo was expected. A few moments passed before she attempted to speak again. When she did, her voice escaped in a whisper. “I cannot bear to hear those words one more time.” Movement caught in her peripheral vision. He had shifted his weight to his other foot and dropped his gaze to the ground. The gesture spoke louder than any words he might have said.

Clenching her teeth, she closed her eyes, exhaling slowly, purposely, as if in meditation. _Breathe in through the nose, breathe out slowly through the mouth just as he taught me._ The little ritual had not calmed the knots twisting her belly into a tangle of painfully raw nerves. But the early morning breeze ruffled her long wispy bangs and whispered upon her cheeks in a caress so familiar, she ached for his touch even more. Inhaling deeply again, her lips parted slightly to exhale slowly. He did it often when they were alone. With those long fingers calloused from decades of wielding swords, he’d brush her hair from her face, and trace her cheekbone to her bottom lip in a whisper of a touch. The gesture, so loving, completely honest and deeply intimate, communicated feelings he had difficulty expressing and stirred her in more ways than one. Squeezing her eyes closed, ignoring the burn, the tension in her jaw a stark contrast to the memory of his caresses. 

This was their favorite spot. The elevation overlooked the manor and vineyards and marked the place where they were married just over a year ago. Often, when time allowed, the two of them would retreat to this quiet peaceful place and sit, resting their backs against the oversized trunk. Simply holding hands, neither would speak for long periods enjoying the comfortable quiet companionship they both longed for and needed. Occasionally, Geralt might smoke a pipe, other times, they’d recount memories and laugh, but in doing so, even in the little things, the sweet balm of their togetherness soothed deeply inflicted wounds they had tucked back into the farthest recesses of their souls. 

Sighing, she raked stiff fingers through her hair, making more of a mess forgetting it was tied in a messy bun at the nape of her neck. Why hadn’t he returned? The not knowing might very well kill her.

BB stifled a soft cough reminding her of his presence. “Cirilla, my lady. We all share your concern. May I remind, Geralt of Rivia is an incredibly difficult man to... ah, dispose. I have the utmost faith that he is fine and well. He will return soon when the time is right. Take heart.”

Her gaze dropped to the ground as her teeth bit into her bottom lip. “He left for Skellige four months ago. He should’ve returned by now.” Desperately she tried to keep her newly found voice steady and at the same decimal, but lost that battle with every word. “No one has seen or heard from him. How do you suppose that makes me feel, BB?” Finally, she turned to face the majordomo. “I am fully aware of his many skills, I’ve witnessed them often enough, but he is not invincible or immortal. Witchers too can die…” Her next words raked from her throat. “What if he’s finally met his match? Or he’s rotting in a dungeon somewhere? You know he has enemies.”

A thought occurred to her she hadn’t considered before now. Could her father, the emperor, have… detained him? As a ransom, maybe? Oh, that possibility opened up a bucket of worms, for sure. So many questions led to even more questions.

BB shifted again clearly trying to find words of comfort. Quietly, he added, “Perhaps there is a very good reason why he’s been away for so long,” then added hurriedly, “something other than what you think, my lady. Queen Cerys summoned him so clearly she needed his help with a tough problem. There’s no deadline on his work, is there? He will help until the job is done and then he’ll come home. I’m sure of it.”

From the moment Corvo Bianco was awarded to Geralt for his work for the duchy, BB was designated by the duchess to be the estate’s overseer and from what Geralt had told her about him, he had come from a long line of majordomos. Sort of a family profession. BB was the best of them, and had seen the estate through its remodeling and beautification process and Geralt had the utmost faith in his skills. Over the last year of being the lady of the estate, she had come to rely and depend on BB’s professional knowledge also. He was as much a part of their household as Yennefer and Chessa. If BB, so sure Geralt was merely tangled up in something that took time to solve, she too could take faith in his assurance, but reality was she couldn’t. She had learned too often and at a young age, she couldn’t trust anyone or anything. Until Geralt and his close knit of friends played major roles in her life.

“You’d think he’d at least send word to us,” she muttered. “He has a son, now BB. You know how reluctant he was to leave in the first place for that very reason. He wouldn’t detain unless something... ” she paused, losing her voice. “Something bad has happened. I can feel it.”

The vineyard workers, many of them with woven baskets either strapped to their backs or resting on the ground before them, plucked the last of the harvest that would soon be turned into the finest wines of Toussaint. Or at least she hoped. This was the first harvest since the estate got up and running a year past. They spent last winter creating and planning the recipes for the wine this year. After all, this was Toussaint, the home of the finest wines in the Continent. They had a high bar to meet if the vineyard hoped to survive amidst such competition.

A little boy’s gleeful laughter bubbled up next to her. Glancing down at Garret, her milk-white haired son, stood up with Chessa’s help and he wobbled to her with outstretched arms. “Ma-Ma,” he smiled, clutching the fabric toy knight in a tight fist. “Mama.” Opening his fingers, he presented the plaything to her.

Momentarily forgetting about everything, Ciri smiled and crouched down in front of him rubbing her hands down his arms and pulled him close. Sitting on her legs she acted surprised. “Is this for me?”

Garret nodded.

“But it’s your favorite.”

“Toy, Ma-Ma. For you.” He placed it in the palm of her hand. 

“Thank you, my love. It is the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received because,” she plucked gently at his chin, “you gave it to me.” Placing a kiss on his forehead, she smiled across at Chessa. The herbalist beamed back at her, her sapphire eyes glinting in the morning sun.

A tug at her neck brought her attention back to the boy. “Papa?” Garret’s fingers had wrapped around her wolf-head medallion dangling inside her blouse. Pulling at it, his smile faded and eyes grew rounder. As wetness gathered in his brilliant green eyes, her heart burst. Gathering him into her arms, she hugged him close. Already at this early age, his features resembled Geralt’s own and it was clear when he grew older, he would look just like him.

“I know, darling. I miss him too.” Ruffling his soft white hair with her fingers, she looked him in the eye. “Papa will be home soon, I promise.”

Glancing down into the courtyard, Ciri’s eyes landed on Yennefer stepping out of the manor, her bold black and white traveling attire standing out in stark contrast against the colorful canvas before her. Her graceful strides, slower than normal, caught her attention. Yen headed towards the herb garden. 

She’s returned! “Come, Sweetie.” Holding Garret’s tiny hand in hers, she led him towards Chessa who took his other hand and drew him close.

“Don’t worry, dear, I’ll watch him. Go to your mother.”

“Thank you, Chessa.”

Her son in good hands, Ciri hurried past BB, dipping his head in respect as she passed, and carefully stepped down the hill and crossed the cobblestoned courtyard, the workers scattered out of her way respectfully. Some older women scolded her playfully while others shook their heads in exasperation. She paid them no mind this time. 

“Mother!” she called. 

The herbarium was situated across the brook that bubbled through the estate and Yennefer stepped off the far side of the bridge and into the herb garden. A medium sized rectangle structure consisting of arches side by side of varying heights constructed of weathered brick and topped with brownish-orange tile roofs served as a greenhouse of sorts. Void of glass windows and doors, the greenhouse was more open than enclosed. Green climbing vines boasted large vibrant blossoms filled most of the archways and provided enough shade for the flowers and plants that could not handle the full southern Toussaint sun.

Typically Yen would harvest fragrant flowers and herbs for her array of potions, elixir’s, creams, perfumes and cosmetics. But this time, she wasn’t so sure that was her purpose now.

“Mother… Did you find hi--” Ciri stopped at sight of Yennefer’s unusually pale complexion. Mother…” She reached out for the sorceress’s arms. “Are you feeling alright? What’s wrong? You can barely stand.” In addition to her paleness, dark circles shadowed under her lower lashes as if she had colored them in with a kohl pencil, alarmed her.

“He’s not at Kaer Morhen, either,” she whispered as if speaking the words alone zapped her strength.

Biting her lip, Ciri refrained from cursing. Instead, she led her mother over to a stool nearby and sat her down. “Mother, please. No more. I appreciate what you’re doing, but so much teleportation is draining you too much. You need to rest for several days before attempting it again.”

Yen breathed in deep. “Although it may not seem like it, Ciri, I am just as worried about him as you.” Even through her exhaustion, her tone stung. Warmth rushed to Ciri’s cheeks. “I’ve been everywhere he could be. I teleported to Skellige first just to make sure he wasn’t still in the isles. Queen Cerys told me he had left two months ago. Now she is worried for him and has sent warriors scouring the isles on the off chance he’s still there. Not wanting to wait around, I went to Novigrad, Oxenfurt, the Bloody Baron’s Crow’s Perch, my old home in Vengerberg, and then to Kaer Morhen. He wasn’t at any of those places.”

Ciri knelt down beside her mother and took her hand. “Where did you go in Novigrad?”

Yen gave her a hard strange look. “All the brothels.”

Taken aback, Ciri glared at the sorceress. “How dare you think he’d--”

“Really, Cirilla, dear. Fine. I didn’t know where else to look besides Dandelion’s cabaret. Zoltan told me he stayed there a couple nights before he boarded the ship for Skellige. If he had returned via the port, he didn’t stop by on his way back. Zoltan hadn’t seen him since.”

“Why the brothels, Mom?” Yen clamped her mouth closed and turned away. A part of her did not want to know, but she was determined. “Why?” The tension in Yen’s jaw, plain to see, increased Ciri’s apprehension. She knew something she didn’t? 

Yen’s words came out in fluster, her hard tone unmistakable. “Because if he visited them on his journey I’ll give him hell when he returns, that’s why. No one treats my daughter this way, understand, Ciri?”

Standing stiff before her mother, Ciri remained silent. A slice of pain pinched her chest. Her husband would do that? Geralt? He could be with someone else though she was his wife?

Yen huffed. “Oh, don’t be so naïve, child.”

Without thinking, Ciri retorted, “Well, was he there?”

Yennefer met her gaze and her eyes softened. “No, he wasn’t. None of the ladies had seen him for quite some time.”

A tense silence blanketed them. Now a burning question couldn’t be stilled. “Did he sleep with other women while he was with you?”

Yen’s lips pressed together and she closed her eyes for a moment. Sighing, she softened her tone. “Our situation was quite different, Ciri. Number one, we were never married. Number two, we spent more time apart than we did together. Years separated us most of the time.”

That made sense. The months she had spent training under Yennefer’s tutelage at the Temple of Melitele when she was about twelve years old was proof of that. Geralt never visited them that entire time. Not until… Realization dawned on her. Not until they reached Aretuza on Thanedd Isle months later. Thinking back farther, when she, Geralt, and Dandelion had stayed a couple days at Chessa’s homestead outside the village of Yantra when she was eleven. Vague memories of her waking with a horrible nightmare late in the night and not knowing where Geralt was sleeping she went to Chessa’s room down the hall and… Shaking her head to rid herself of that memory, she pressed a finger to her temple. 

“Couldn’t expect either one of us to remain celibate during that time, dear,” she continued. “We didn not know if we were ever going to see each other again, and number three,” she paused, her eyes glazing over as if she were somewhere else, in another place, another time. “When we lived together in Vengerberg, no, he was not with other women. Oh, forget I said anything, darling. I - I’m. Never mind. This past year I’ve watched how much both of you have grown closer together and grown individually. The two of you… you’re good for each other. You make each other stronger. He and I… we hurt each other too much.”

Heart wrenching, Ciri, fell to her knees before her. “Mother, please. I can’t bear to see you like this.” Yennefer clutched the sides of her head and drew her close. Cool lips pressed against her forehead. Closing her eyes, she relished this warm moment. Thoughts of her grandmother, Queen Calanthe, came to mind. It had been so long since she knew the comfort and security of family and here, with Geralt and Yen and everyone else, she had it again. Never would she lose them again.

“My sweet daughter. Nothing shall come between us. Nothing. And Geralt doesn’t even think about other women since he’s married you. He is completely enamored with you and faithful, my sweet.”

“You sure? Or are you just telling me that to make me feel better?”

“I can read minds, have you forgotten? And yes, I still continue to read his just for that purpose. You have nothing to worry about--”

“Then why bring it up in the first place?” Getting up, she turned away focusing on an autumn leaf fluttering in the wind past her.

“Like I said,” Yen sighed. “We hurt each other too much. It’s an old habit I cannot shake. I lived with the knowledge he was with others--” 

Sitting back, Ciri swiped at her bangs eager to change the subject. “Did you try anywhere else in Velen besides Crow’s Perch?”

Yen’s pale and drawn face turned towards her, the whites around her violet eyes pink with exhaustion. For a moment her eyes flashed and Ciri expected another sharp retort. She wasn’t disappointed. “Velen is a vast land, Ciri. Would you have me teleport to each village and settlement asking everyone I laid eyes on if they’ve seen him? I don’t have that kind of stamina, you know that. Geralt rarely takes the main roads, my dear.” 

Exactly. That was the problem. He could be anywhere. 

Stifling a yawn, she continued. “If I didn’t know any better, he got dragged into some political conflict as usual and you know him. He would help them, for however long it took if not for the extra coin--”

Ciri nodded, smiling, her heart warming at talk of the man she deeply loved since she was a kid in desperate need of his protection. “Because he’s a good man, Mom. Always helping others especially if they’ve helped him. He is a loyal friend.”

Yen merely nodded, saving her strength. After a few moments, she added, "After I've rested awhile, I'll use my mega scope and scan for him. If I can at least pinpoint the geographical region I can do perform a magical scan--"

"No need." Ciri stood and glanced around taking in the sights and sounds of a fully operational vineyard. Everything in order here. Yen and Chessa would look after Garret, and BB would keep the homestead and vineyard running. It’s not like she’d be gone for any length of time--

Yennefer’s hand gripped her wrist, yanking her out of her thoughts. “Cirilla, no. I know what you’re thinking.”

“Mother, you’re exhausted. I won’t ask you to try and find him anymore when all I have to do is merely think of him and transport to him effortlessly.”

“No, Ciri, I mean it. You cannot on the spur of the moment flash out of here. You are a mother, now, dear, you have a nursing son to tend to.” Despite the exhaustion, the note of you-had-better-listen-to-me tone was undeniable. Huffing, Ciri swiped at her bangs and breathed in the wood smoke scented air. "Let me go to him. I need to know he is alive, Mom. I promise, I will return straight away.”

Yen’s eyes narrowed in warning. “You had better return straight away, you hear me?”

Smiling, she stepped back from the sorceress closed her eyes and--

“Ciri, wait!”

She flung open her eyes and exhaled the breath she had been holding. “What, Mother?”

“At least, take your sword with you, Witcher.”

Grinning, her heart swelled at the term. Yes, she was a witcher. Now she she can act like one. Ciri bent and kissed Yennefer on her cool forehead and hurried to the house. Crashing through the front door, she came up short in front of BB who looked just as surprised to see her as she did him.

“My lady! Anything I can do for you?”

“Fetch my sword.”

Blinking a moment, he recovered quickly. “Allow me, Madame.” With a slight bow, he retreated towards the back of the main living area to a rack that held her sword among the impressive display of Geralt's armor and weapons he had collected over the years. 

Chessa turned sapphire eyes on her and smiled. Garret played on the floor beside the table. He glanced up at her with wide emerald green eyes. Going to him, she knelt on the rug before him. “Garret, my sweet. Mommy is going to find Papa, so I will be gone for just a short while. Auntie Chessa and Nana will be here for you until I return.” BB, standing nearby holding her sword over both forearms, coughed lightly. Smiling, she added, “And of course, BB here too. They will all watch over you.” Ruffling his white hair, she kissed the top of his head. “See you soon, my love.”

Rising, she faced BB. He presented her with her blade. The sword Geralt gifted her in White Orchard last year when he pronounced her a witcher. Reverently, her fingers glided over the leather wrapped hilt. The orange flames from the many candles lighting the common room glinted off the long shining blade. Gripping the hilt firmly, she lifted the weapon from his hands.

“It’s been awhile, my lady,” he whispered. 

“Too long,” she sighed.

“It’s still extremely sharp. Before he left for Skellige, one night he couldn’t sleep. He took your blade outside to the grindstone and sharpened it himself.”

Ciri held Barnabas-Basil’s gaze. Even through his spectacles, light glistened in those depths of a middle-aged man who had served many families. Somehow, she had the feeling he hadn’t been as attached to them as he was to their family. By the intensity of his gaze, he held Geralt of Rivia in high esteem and because she was his wife, he beheld her with the same affection. Smiling, wetness burned her eyes and her heart swelled at the thought but more from how even four months ago, Geralt looked out for her and displayed his love by taking care of her equipment. 

Chessa’s delicate hand pressed on her shoulder. Glancing at her, she smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry about Garret, we will take care of him.”

“I know. I promised Yennefer to come right back. I just need to know he’s alive. Whatever it was he was involved in… I just need to know.”

“We understand, dear. Be safe.”

Sheathing the blade in it’s matching leather scabbard, she shrugged the leather chest belt over her shoulder. The familiar weight on her back drew a smile across her face, straightened her shoulders and gave her such an elevated feeling of strength and power. It was a simple sword, but it reminded her of who she was. A witcher. Just like Geralt. And now, she was going to find him come hell or high water. He just may need her help.

She addressed both majordomo and friend. “Keep an eye on Mother, too, please. Make sure she rests and does not fret about me.”

BB bowed respectfully. “I trust you will not be away long?”

“You’ll barely know I’m gone.” 

Finally, she was able to do something about finding her husband rather than sitting back and letting others do the work for her. Finding Geralt was her top priority and she was not going to stop until she found him. With a pleased and grateful smile, she closed her eyes and formed an image of her white-haired witcher lover and his disarming smile. Warm green shimmering light enveloped her. Fading away, she kept his image in her mind as weightlessness overtook her. BB’s, Chessa’s, and little Garret's faces faded from her vision into a green haze of nothingness.

In a moment, she would rush into his strong arms…

Yennefer appeared in the doorway, urgency canceling out her fatigue. Before them, a cloud of green mist coiled into the air and dissipated. “Ciri, no!” she screamed, reaching for her only to have her fingers grasp nothing but air.

Chessa whirled and hurried to her, gripping her shaking arms. “What is it, Yenna? Ciri just left.”

“I know, damn it! Damn it all to hell!”

Chessa glanced at BB, then at Yennefer. “What’s wrong?”

Silent, Yen pulled herself from Chessa's grasp and stood to the side. Another figure entered through the door, his hand still gripping the handle. A tall distinguished looking man in his late middle aged years paused just inside. A gloved leather hand tugged at the belt that crossed diagonally from shoulder to waist. The belt secured a few leather pouches and small metal instruments used in his trade. A plethora of clashing fragrances of herbs and spices oozed from him hung in the air thick as smoke, but it bothered none of them. Silvery hair combed back in waves, thick sideburns contoured his cheeks, and grayish skin unnatural for a human man, but he had kind eyes black as midnight. Their vampire friend towered over all of them. Behind him, standing outside in the sunlight, the flamboyantly dressed bard removed his beret, looking unusually solemn for the typically cheeky and happy-go-lucky minstrel. Both men, Geralt’s most trusted friends, were as much a part of this family as she was. 

Regis looked at them all in turn and focused his grave attention on her. “Forgive the lack of polite pleasantries, Yennefer. There is something you must know.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Done with waiting for her husband to arrive home, Ciri takes it upon herself to find Geralt after Yennefer's failed attempts. Regis shares dire news of the north and decides it's high time he help find his best friend. Ciri struggles with some insecurities and fears.

**CHAPTER 2**

Crashing hard against an invisible cold and jagged wall with a grunt, it knocked the wind out of her. Her face and breasts flattened against it and she gasped from the jarring pain. For the span of a breath, she hung suspended between worlds before slipping into nothingness. Her stomach shot to her throat. The weightlessness of free falling and not having any control was not a pleasant sensation. The wind rushed through her ears, her hair whipped all about, her loose linen shirt snapped around her arms and neck. Losing the ability to breathe, she free-fell at neck-breaking speed for several heart-stopping moments. Envisioning splattering on jagged rocks below, she must do something before she hit bottom, _if_ there was a bottom. This had never happened before! Picturing Geralt again, she evaporated into a swirl of green light. 

Yet again, she flattened against a solid unseen barrier and tumbled. With a curse, she thought of Yennefer and crash landed on a hard warm surface. Opening her eyes, the aroma of many herbs filled her nostrils and candlelight pierced her throbbing brain. By the gods, her head pounded something fierce, like a blacksmith's anvil. Her throat parched as if she had swallowed cotton. Aware of deft fingers unbuckling her sword belt, strong arms gathered her close and lifted her easily. Resting her forehead against a leather and belted chest, she breathed, “Geralt…” Her mouth struggled with forming words. 

“Hush, child.” 

With a groan, she furrowed her brow. Geralt? You sound different. Rolling her head to the side, every inch of her body pained her as if she were run through a grain grinder. Another movement and the soft sheets of her bed welcomed her. Nestling down into plush pillows, she reached for him, her husband, her everything. “Geralt…” she sighed. Fingers pulled her arms down to her sides. No, I want to touch you, to look at you. Opening her eyes a slit, it was all she could manage. Everything blurred in the room. Golden candlelight pierced her eyes. Soft voices spoke in words her ringing ears couldn’t make out. A beautiful feminine face hovered over her, long raven curls tickled her collarbone. Confusion gripped her. “Geralt? Where are you?”

“Don’t speak, Ciri. Drink this.”

Mother? Mom, is that you? A hand behind her head lifted it slightly and she cried out at the hammering pain. A cool earthenware mug pressed against her lips and fragrant liquid slid down her throat. Eagerly she drank it. Someone pulled open her blouse and cool compresses dabbed at her breasts. 

“Sleep, my darling daughter. You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

A growing patchwork of black dots filled her vision from the edges until she could no longer see. Fatigue melted her muscles and no longer did she struggle.

Blackness overcame her.

* * *

Regis stepped out of the bedchamber giving space and privacy as the sorceress and herbalist tended to Ciri. Chessa prepared poultices and salves for the multiple bruises and scratches on her face, chest, and hands, while Yen held a mug to Ciri's lips. The sleeping tincture would keep her asleep for several hours. Stealing one last look at Geralt’s wife sleeping deeply in their plush bed, he quietly closed the door behind him. Raking a hand through his thick waves, he sat down in an upholstered chair near the long dining table that easily sat ten people comfortably.

BB stood at the far end of the room where Garret sat on the floor on a blanket playing with a few soft toys. The majordomo asked if he could get him anything to drink. The vampire shook his head and politely declined the offer.

Dandelion, unusually quiet until now came closer to him. Blue eyes normally filled with mirth and a sparkle of mischief were filled with worry. “Do you think the report is accurate?”

Taking in a breath, Regis kept his voice low. “There’s only one way to find out for certain - by going north. But since you asked, I do believe the report. It was given by a Nilfgaardian ambassador who comes to Beauclair twice annually. He resides in Nazair but spends the summer east of Novigrad. It is around this time of year he makes the second trip. He would know what is going on up north and it is his duty to report it both to the emperor and to the duchy. Relaying information as serious as an epidemic falsely would result in dire consequences for him politically.”

Dandelion shook his head, his eyes lowered to the table in front him but not focusing on anything in particular. “I can’t believe it. I hope Zoltan’s alright. Don’t know what state my cabaret’s in, but it’s too dangerous to travel now. But Geralt...” He scratched his head near his temple. “To come home he’d have to ride right through the heart of the Continent.”

“Geralt is an intelligent and clever man, Dandelion, do not forget that. He is resourceful, independent, self-sufficient and possesses an incredible skill at staying alive. Especially now that he has… all this. A home, a wife, a son… a family. Everything he loves is here. He will protect it. And if you ask me, that’s exactly what he is doing. Protecting them. Protecting us and Toussaint. By staying away.” Dandelion met his gaze in earnest as his words sunk in.

The bedchamber door opened and the ladies quietly exited the room. Yennefer stood with her back to them, Chessa closed the door slowly. 

Regis’ gaze sought Yennefer’s. “Ciri will be all right, I’m sure. Have any idea what happened?”

Yennefer, her back to him, did not respond, merely stood there with a hand on a hip, staring at the floor.

Swiping at a stray wavy strand of dark hair from her temple, Chessa filled the silence while moving to the back of the room towards Garret. “She came for her sword, told us she was going to teleport to Geralt. She desperately needed to know if he's alive. Just as she left, Yennefer ran in--”

“Had to stop her," she interjected in a soft voice edged with bitterness, "from going to him.” Yennefer’s voice, unusually soft, captured everyone’s attention. “We don't know where he is and the news Regis brought… It was best if she didn’t go, but I was too late." Turning, her pale complexion caused her violet eyes to appear larger than normal, and her concerned gaze locked on the vampire's. "Do you think she could've…?" 

All eyes turned to the vampire barber-surgeon. Regis shook his head. "A question I cannot answer until Cirilla awakens, I'm afraid. She reappeared here almost as soon as she had left, is that right?" He looked at Chessa for verification. 

"Yes, that is correct, Yenna. She was gone for only a few moments." 

The vampire smiled in gratitude. "I do not believe we need to worry about that, Yennefer. However, the question is how she arrived in such a condition.”

Chessa continued with that thought. “And why she ended up back here.”

Regis nodded. “After all, Geralt was her destination. Yennefer, has this happened before? Ciri ever teleported to a person only to be thrown back to where she started? How does her gift work? Are there limitations?”

Grasping a chair arm, Yennefer slowly collapsed into the plush seat. "She possesses an unique ability. One all magic users pine with jealousy to possess. All she needs to do to think of the person or place she wishes to go and she teleports there instantly, without effort.” 

Stillness blanketed them, no one spoke or moved in the common room of Geralt’s manor, the candlelight flickering offering the only movement. BB, who had remained back in the corner was unusually quiet.

Regis paused considering all possibilities. “Speaking as someone who also teleports without much effort, either Ciri’s way was blocked or her skill is skewed for some reason.”

Yennefer looked up. “What do you mean?”

Regis met her concerned violet gaze. “Perhaps she never made it to Geralt and coming back here was her only safe option.”

“Or, she teleported right in the middle of a battle he had found himself embroiled in, got hurt and seeing that he was alive, came back.” Yennefer’s sharp tone had returned. But clearly it was due to her worry over the girl and even her former lover.

He did not think so, but he kept silent. Judging by her wounds, they did not look like wounds inflicted by weapons. Her forehead, nose, breasts, and ripped trousers, her knees also were scraped and scratched as if she had crashed into something. Some kind of malfunction during teleportation? He shook his head. Wouldn’t be a problem for her, for like him, natural teleportation worked far more seamlessly than fabricated teleportation that mages and sorceresses use. Those could and have malfunctioned in the past. 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Yennefer rasped, peering intently at him. “Perhaps she’s been right all along. Her intuition is usually correct. Something’s wrong. Very wrong. And Geralt may be in grave danger.” 

Regis stood. "If Geralt doesn't want to be found, no one will find him. But in case he is in danger, we should try. We will not have any more information until Cirilla awakens. If she can provide some proximity to where he is, would help immensely. I will do some teleportation of my own and see if I can find him.” The vampire headed with purposeful strides to the door. With a hand on the handle, he paused, turning slightly. “But remember, Geralt is not so easily killed. The report from the north is dire, true." He gave her a warm confident smile. "He’s a smart man, Yennefer. Maybe by staying away, he is protecting his loved ones.”

Yennefer inhaled a deep breath and let it out evenly. “He’s not in Novigrad, Oxenfurt, Crow’s Perch, Vengerberg, the Temple of Melitele, or Kaer Morhen. I’ve already checked those places.”

“Thank you. When Ciri awakens, try to get more information, then tell a raven. I hope to return with some good news.”

The arched door closed behind him and again silence fell between them. Chessa looked at each of them and settled on Yen. “What did Regis tell you before, Yenna?" When Yennefer did not respond, she tried again. "Why did you mean to stop Ciri from going to him?” The uncomfortable quiet was deafening.

For the first time Dandelion spoke up. “Annarietta had received news from Nilfgaard, from her cousin, the emperor. They keep her informed on what’s occurring in the north as well as within the empire.” 

Taking in a deep breath, Yennefer stood, slowly with graceful movements. Crossing the room, she laid a pale delicate hand with slim long fingers on the doorknob to the bedchamber. Dandelion paused. Giving Chessa his full attention, he added, “The reports reveal the northern kingdoms… well, they are not… faring well." His usually cheerful blue eyes, now dull and solemn, flicked from Yennefer's back to her. "A plague is ravaging the northern half of the Continent.” 

Chessa’s heart stopped a moment and felt the warmth drain from her body, and shivered. Without a word, Yennefer opened the door quietly and slipped inside. It closed behind her with a soft click.

* * *

“Darling...” a warm voice echoed in her ears and its worry-filled edge brought her to.

“Mom,” Ciri mumbled, her voice sounded thick to her ears. Opening her eyes, Ciri blinked several times before focusing on anything. Pushing herself up, the dull ache in her head and knees screamed in protest. Groaning, she laid back down into the soft pillows.

“Don’t try and get up yet. Here, sip this.”

She opened her eyes. Chessa’s soft expression soothed her as she held a mug of steaming liquid to her lips. Eagerly, she sipped carefully, her throat parched. The healer’s sapphire blue eyes peered at her with worry etched in their depths.

“Chessa,” she smiled, or at least attempted to. “Where’s Mother?”

“Resting upstairs. She spent all day sitting here by your side as exhausted as she already was. I just sent her to bed a short while ago. And even then she protested,” she added with a smile.

“Yeah, that sounds like her, alright.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore. Damn, I ache all over, like someone flattened me on a blacksmith’s anvil. Even my breasts hurt.”

“They’re bruised like much of your body is. Yen and I did not detect any broken bones or fractures but your ribs are bruised. I’ve wrapped them up, though not too tightly. Please take it easy, alright?”

Ciri nodded now realizing the binds across her middle.

“Awake enough to talk?”

She nodded again.

“What happened? You vanished from the house and within minutes you dropped back in out of the air and landed on the floor looking as if you’ve been through a war. And you’re injured. We’re all very worried about you. Can you explain exactly what happened?”

“I didn’t make it, Chessa.” She sat up gingerly, and Chessa helped her back against the wall of plush pillows behind her. Snuggled comfortably and supported, she tugged the covers up and tucked their cushy warmth tight around her sides. “I did not reach Geralt. Couldn’t.”

Chessa’s delicately arched dark brows crinkled, her lips pressed together tightly.

“Every time I thought of him, I collided with…”

“What, dear?”

“I don’t know. A wall. A mountain… must have been a mountain." She winced, pressing a palm to her breast. "I remember sharp jagged edges like a cliff face of the Blue Mountains. And then I fell from a great height. Fearing I'd hit bottom, I thought of him again… and collided against the mountain again. I fell and fell. Desperate, I thought of Garret and landed back here. I don’t understand it, Chessa. This has never happened to me before. There has never been a place or person I couldn’t reach… Unless--”

“Don’t you dare think that--”

“He's dead.”

The door opened and Yennefer rushed inside, her expression full of worry. “Ciri, darling! How are you feeling?”

“I ache all over, but I’ll live.”

Yen moved to the other side of the bed and sat down on the edge opposite of Chessa. She looked exhausted.

Chessa glanced at Yen. “Ciri was just telling me she never made it to Geralt.”

Yen’s questioning gaze grew intense. 

Chessa continued. “She was not able to complete her teleportation. Whenever she thought of Geralt, she collided against a mountain of sorts and fell. That’s how she got injured.”

Yen frowned. “Couldn’t complete your telepor-- Ciri, you’ve never had a problem with that before. Mages would because we are dependent upon portals, but you, dear, are not hindered by such limitations. At least that we know of. You can travel between worlds and dimensions, yet you cannot teleport to your husband?”

“I know, Mother. I don’t understand it either. I thought perhaps it meant that Geralt has died-”

Yennefer reached for Ciri’s hand and with the other smoothed one over her hair. “We will not think that. Not one bit, you understand me, girl?”

Chessa added, “Have you ever teleported to someone who had died and you didn’t know it? What would happen then?”

“Suppose I would just appear wherever that person was last, or maybe where they've been buried. I don’t really know.”

“But you didn’t get anywhere. You couldn’t complete your teleportation for some reason. What could it be and Geralt being dead is not one I believe or accept.”

Silence weighed heavily in the room. Ciri’s hand smoothed over the covers of the empty space beside her. His side of the bed had been empty for too long. An deep ache knifed her chest and she inhaled sharply, before exhaling slowly.

Watching her closely, Yennefer patted her hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. And we are not going to assume the worst. Geralt is a very capable man and Regis will look for him. If I know Geralt, and I do very well, if he doesn’t want to be found, no one will find him."

Ciri turned wide eyes on the sorceress. “He’d hide even from me?”

Yen’s violet gaze met Chessa’s sapphire eyes and the two exchanged knowing glances.

An ache sliced through her heart and it had nothing to do with the injuries she had sustained through teleportation. The conversation with mother earlier crossed her mind again. Her fingers scrunched up the covers on his side of the bed. She glanced between the two powerful ladies that have meant everything to her. “Are you suggesting Geralt doesn’t want me to find him because--”

“Merely suggesting,” Yennefer interrupted, her gaze settling everywhere but at her, “there’s a reason why he doesn’t want to be found.” 

* * * 

Gingerly, Ciri wrapped Chessa's knitted shawl around her shoulders and gazed out the window. The moonlight bathed the estate in a silvery hue illuminating everything. The flowers, the cobblestone courtyard and drive, the stable, Geralt’s workshop at the end of the stable, even the vineyards and greenhouse beyond. But all that was lost as her eyes settled on her mother’s petite figure across the courtyard before a large tree. Still as a fixture, her gaze locked on the tree. She appeared to be doing nothing. 

Ciri pressed her lips together recalling both conversations today. None of this made any sense. Geralt had been the happiest she had ever seen him in her life since they’d been married. He doted on Garret all the time. Their son was the pride and joy of his life. He took the renovations of their home seriously and with excitement. They all looked forward to this year’s harvest. The first since he’d been the new owner of the estate. He’s been surrounded by loved ones… Why-- she swallowed hard. Why would he not want to be found? Why wouldn’t he come back to her? Had he been going through something he never told her about? Did he wish to be back on the road traveling like he was so used to doing? Was he that restless? When Queen Cerys summoned him, he was genuinely reluctant to leave… 

A flurry of wings disturbed the peaceful silence of the night and several ravens cawed and took off in flight heading north. So that was what mother was doing. Speaking to the ravens. They’d find Regis and communicate with him. Or, she was using the intelligent birds to help find him. Maybe both… 

Gnawing on a fingernail, she glanced at the tree on the hill that was their favorite retreat. Dark, and empty, it reminded her of how dark and empty her life had become since his departure. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

Delicate warm hands alighted upon her shoulders. “Come, dear. You need your rest.” She must be out of sorts if she acquiesced so easily. Turning, she glanced back at the top of the hill again. It’s empty stillness left a hollow hole in her belly. Chessa guided her toward the bedchamber. Another night alone. In an empty bed. Collapsing into it, she buried her face in the covers. Where was he sleeping right now? Where had he slept this whole time? Biting her bottom lip, she crammed her face deeper into the fluffy pillow not able to handle the possible reality of her only other thought. 

Was he with someone else?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his journey home to Corvo Bianco, Geralt passes through Velen and arrives in White Orchard by the time he realizes something is disastrously wrong in Temeria. Unsure what his next move should be, he is torn between getting home as fast as he can or staying away to protect his loved ones.

**CHAPTER 3**

  
  
  


**White Orchard, Temeria**

**Velen, 1274**

Another one.

Exhaling a curse under his breath, he scrutinized the town for any signs of life. The golden sunset shed the last of its warmth on his back, its fading heat diminished from the late autumn rays earlier this afternoon. The chill set in already. Despite that, oddly, no children romped around the roads or in the grass, no workers in the fields, not even a woman bent over a tub scrubbing laundry. The only signs of life in the past hour or so, a pack of wolves smart enough to keep their distance a ways back.

White Orchard was a moderately sized thriving town, one with which he was familiar. Now, it mirrored that of every other village he passed in the last few days. Another damned ghost town.

Leaves boasting rich hues of the colors of autumn lazily drifted past him in the slight north westerly breeze. But even as the soothing colors of autumn were vibrant in the trees, acres of unharvested fields, empty rutted roads, and a quiet deserted tavern that should have been noisy and bustling at this time of day depicted a disturbing and contrasting picture. Silent as a graveyard, golden rays retreated from the town boasting vast fields and spaced out houses, in their place, shadows darkened the thatched rooftops as the sun dropped to a point behind him. The shape of his own shadow stretched on ahead. 

Dusk settled in. The breeze fluttered strands of long milk-white hair tickling his brow, but the sinking feeling in his gut arrested his attention. With each village passed on his long journey home, the picture painted here was the same. Apprehension tightened his insides into painful knots. 

Roach snorted and shook her head, her mane whipped with the motion and flies scattered, buzzing around her face. Absentmindedly, he stroked her neck with a leather gloved hand, not taking his eyes off the sprawling landscape.

Something’s wrong. Definitely wrong. And it was not contained to this one locale. The whole of Velen resembled this… what exactly? Impotence? Political or social? Or both? Every village, settlement and town still and unmoving as… he stopped that thought with a clenched jaw. 

No villagers bustled about their daily business. Oh, they were present. It wasn’t as if they had abandoned their homes like many had in Velen when Nilfgaard had attacked and started the third war two years ago. How often had he come across small settlements, their houses abandoned at best, if not, completely destroyed. No, these homes were intact and in decent shape. But something else grabbed his attention. A common sight for this time of day, dark grey woodsmoke normally coiled up to the sky from each house, but now only a couple of homes had smoke rising from their chimneys. The most disturbing change? The fields. Left untended, the harvest had overgrown and would soon rot if they hadn’t already. Worse, rodents and larger more unpleasant beasts would feast on the useless grain. 

Had the villagers left White Orchard and moved elsewhere? 

The last town he had passed four days ago looked eerily the same. As did the villages before that. And while the people stayed holed up in their homes, their fields grew wild aslo. What else had they not done? Had cows' milk dried up? Sheep gone un-sheared? Cattle not butchered? The army not demand these goods?

Made no sense! 

The oppressiveness of his thoughts mirrored the feeling hanging in the air. He had sensed it for some time. Since he'd set foot off the ship from Skellige, really. A shift in the air, an ominous sense of inevitable change that rapidly manifested with equal tension in his neck and shoulders. He hadn’t been gone that long for such a total change in atmosphere here in Velen. It couldn’t be the Nilfgaardian presence in Novigrad, could it? The army had focused its sights on the free city since King Radovid’s assassination opened the gates wide for the emperor to move right in and take over. That was, what, a year ago?

Many Witch-Hunters had scattered, their power undermined by the emperor’s acceptance of mages and non-humans. The Church of Eternal Fire’s tight grip around the throats of the citizens forced to lessen its hold and many hunters went elsewhere, went rogue even. The villages were not threatened by them, were they? It wasn’t fear of the Black Ones causing people not to stray out of their houses or move somewhere else. Had he stumbled upon a continent-wide boycott? Not tilling the fields so the army couldn’t take their grain? How did they themselves eat to survive?

Roach snorted, swung her long nose and butted him hard in the shoulder, jingling several silver buckles on his dark grey and black leather jerkin. The gesture jarred him from his thoughts. “I know, Roach.” He rubbed his palm down her nose and pointed into town. “See that? Not far at all now. You’ll get some water and oats. Hang on a little longer.”

He had merely given the previous other villages a wide berth seeing no point in stopping. He hadn’t needed supplies then, but now did. Rations low, he regretted not stopping at the larger town four days ago. He exhaled audibly. He needed more than supplies now, he needed answers.

Gripping the reins, he swung up into the saddle and followed the main road east into White Orchard. On either side of the dirt pathway, tall green grass and colorful fallen leaves littered the landscape. In a few minutes, he would find out what the hell was going on here in the northern kingdoms.

Then it hit him. 

As unforgettable and stomach-churning as it was, he knew the stench well. Reining Roach to a halt, he stared long and hard up the road slowly swallowed by the shadow of dusk, his ears tuned for any sound. “Shit,” he uttered, his fingers already twitching for the solid hilt of his silver sword. A stench that putrid meant only one thing. 

The last of the sun’s rays disappeared behind him. Long thin clouds shaded deep orange and pink stretched before him. Clenching his teeth, he urged the mare on, his eyes darting behind trees and houses ready for anything. Likely, he wasn't going to be the only guest to make an appearance tonight. 

*** * ***

The closer to the center of the town he approached, the stronger the wretched stench. Thick, putrid. With effort, he swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Despite resisting the urge to retch, he maintained an unhurried pace steering Roach up the main road into the center of town. The clip-clop of her hooves on the rutted dirt path and the occasional creak of his leather saddle the only sounds. And he felt her unease, the slight falter in her step. With a comforting hand, he smoothed it down the back of her neck, breathing out reassuring words as quiet as a caress.

Keeping her at a slow stroll, he peered into windows of homes close to the road for a glimpse of someone, anyone who would talk to him. Each town had an alderman. If he could find him, he’d get some news. Many windows, dark, revealed nothing, and no one. Only a couple homes had candles lit, the glowing warmth drew his eye. But none peered out their windows wondering why a lone witcher strolled into town.

A distant sound drew his attention and he honed in on it. A deep thud and then scraping noises. It repeated a few more times and stopped.

Passed several homes already. No one revealed themselves. Wait... There’s one. A door opened a crack and a young boy no more than twelve winters old peered at him with curious and anxious eyes.

Tugging on the reins, the mare halted. Without dismounting, he simply rested his hands in his lap and smiled gently at the boy. At first, the welp wanted to smile in return, a glimmer in his otherwise shadowed gaze. Fear overtook him and he slammed the door, its echo jarring the stillness and startled Roach beneath him. With a gentle hand to her neck she calmed after letting out a snort that clearly communicated what she thought of the situation. 

“Young man,” Geralt called in an easy-going manner. Didn’t want to scare him any more than he had already. His deep gravelly voice carried in the stillness sounded louder to his ears than normal. The repetitive thud and scraping sound started up again. Roach shook her mane, dancing in place with impatience, clearly anxious. He tugged on the reins with care, but firmly reassuring her.

“The alderman. Where would I find him? You have nothing to fear from me.”

The door creaked open a bit more. The boy's light brown eyes rounded and his pale cheeks, drawn and slightly gaunt, pinkened. Hesitating, he glanced behind him, then turned back to him again. Curiosity proved victorious. The boy opened the door wider revealing his thin frame and stepped out. Cautious, he took another step and pointed behind the house.

"He's back there?" 

The boy nodded without a hint of a smile. 

In the woods, of course. The same direction the scraping sounds came from. Geralt frowned, glancing up the road and then back down the way he had come. No one, nothing. Nodding, he dismounted, but did not approach the boy.

"Wha-- what do you want?" 

The boy's wavering voice pierced Geralt's soul. His question so full of fear contained a glimmer of hope. Clearly, things were bad. For along with his words his keen ears had picked up another sound no human could hear unless he stood right in front of him. But even as a witcher, did he possess the power to help in this battle? For now he understood. It made sense now. The stench, the scraping noises, a sick kid, and the lack of townsfolk.

"Best get back inside, boy. And stay there. Don't come out no matter what you hear. Lock your door and windows, understand?"

Backing up, the boy outstretched his arm until his hand came in contact with the door and slipped behind it. The door closed and Geralt waited until the slide and click of the lock assured him the boy had obeyed.

He made his way around the house, through tall grass, around overgrown bushes, and spotted a narrow path leading into the forest slowly swallowed up in dusk's dark shadows. The scraping noises definitely came from within the trees and the sinking feeling in his gut tightened into a dense feeling of dread. Bile rose in his throat again. He exhaled deeply and breathed in through his mouth. It's been awhile since a stench made him want to vomit. It grew more potent the farther he strode into the wood. 

As dusk settled into night, dark shadows blanketed the trees. Little critters scurried under the brush rustling leaves and cracking twigs. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Then flames flared and blazed through the branches in bright yellow-orange light. Torches, tied to stakes, and the stakes driven in the grass. Gotta be the alderman. Or at least the source of the shoveling sounds.

Emerging from the tree line into a clearing, he approached behind a lone dark figure of a man, bent over a crater in the forest floor with mounds of dark dirt piled around its rim. With effort, he gripped a long handled shovel with grubby hands and shoved a pile of dirt into the hole.

Geralt stopped. Distant guttural growls pricked his keen ears.

The man's clothes, filthy with soil and sweat, hung on him loosely, his bent form with shoulders curved inwards depicted it all too clearly. Geralt exhaled slowly reading the despondent body language easily. "Looking for the alderman, sir."

The man whipped around, his free hand outstretched, his grubby palm faced him, his eyes, glazed, wide and intense. "Don't come any closer," he rasped, his voice muffled beneath a handkerchief tied around his face covering his nose down to his neck. "Stay back!" The rest of his face, dripping with exertion, his eyes, lined with grief, clearly revealed a man in great emotional distress and physical exhaustion. A healthy spattering of gray hair at his temples revealed a man in his middle-aged years.

Raising gloved hands, palms outwards with fingers spread, Geralt added quietly. "Not going to harm you--" He took a step closer, then thought better of it. Standing in place, he craned his neck to peer into the hole the man had dug, but didn't really need to. He already knew. Swallowing with difficulty, he slowly lowered his arms. "That all of them?"

The man dropped his arm and leaned on the handle of the shovel as if it were the only thing keeping him on his feet. In the deepening shadows, his gaze lowered and darkened. Nodding, he swiped at his eyes.

"You sure?" 

He breathed in deep but did not answer.

Geralt glanced around, his ears prickling at distant sounds only he could hear for now until they came closer. "It's important. Is this," he pointed to the mass grave, "all of the dead? If there are others, tell me where to find them. The sooner the better."

"If you want to help so badly, stranger, leave this wretched place now before the plague takes you next." He staggered and would have fallen if not for the support of the shovel.

Geralt reached for the man then stopped himself short as if he were about to touch a kettle over the fire full of boiling water. He ground his teeth together. That possibility had crossed his mind but to have it confirmed... he exhaled audibly.

“Been living under a rock, Witcher? You of all people should’ve known with all your travelling around and what not. This plague’s deadlier than the Catriona plague more than a decade past.”

His sharp reply did not sting him, though he was correct. He would have known if he were still living here in the northern realms but he hadn’t been. Not since the duchess Anna Henrietta paid him with an estate in Toussaint for a job he had performed there not so long ago. He’d been enjoying family life at Corvo Bianco only doing witcher work around the duchy as needed, but mostly, he’d been spending precious time with his wife and… he took in a slow deep breath. The thought of Ciri and their newborn son always made him tremble inside. The son he could not sire on his own, but through the gift of Ciri’s Elder Blood magic, together they witnessed a miracle.

What the alderman said made sense. Perhaps the dreaded sickness drove all indoors and single handedly halted all civilization’s businesses. Untended fields grew wild, their harvest rotted because not enough alive could tend to them. A knot tightened his gut. When would this region catch a break? Not only did it suffer the invasion of the Nilfgaardian army, but famine that quickly followed, and now the cursed plague ravaged what was left. What else could these people possibly have to deal with next?

Eager to get back to his home and family in the beautiful, idyllic, and untouched duchy of Toussaint, urgency drove him on, but no more than caution. The guttural growls and clawing sounds grew louder by the minute. He stepped forward. "Let me help you."

"Nay, stranger!" The fellow held out a hand again. Coughing, he swiped an arm across his forehead streaking damp lines of dirt across with it. "It's deadly, I tell ya. Took all from this village, save but a few, in a matter of days. Best leave now."

"Listen to me carefully." Geralt took a gentle step forward, cautious not to agitate him any further, but also needed to get his point across. "Night is upon us. The stench of death is pungent and it carries far. You won't fill in this grave in time--”

“In time for what?” His sharp interruption clearly bespoke of his anger and grief.

“Hear that?” Geralt cocked his head in the direction of the town. “They're coming. Need to burn the bodies before you have another problem on your hands."

In a strangled voice, the alderman spat, "What could be worse than this?" He swept an arm over the large crater filled with scores of the deceased ranging in ages from both young and old. Peering back at him, his eyes widened. It seemed as if the village leader looked at him for the first time and realization dawned in his eyes as to with whom he spoke. "You're a witcher…"

Pausing a moment, Geralt narrowed his eyes. Had not the man called him that earlier? He had recognized him as no ordinary man. Had he forgotten already? Strange that. Another symptom of the sickness or an unrelated one? Shoving the thought aside, he couldn't afford to be side-tracked. "And corpse-eaters are coming and will find a feast here. They’ll tear anyone up who gets in their way. We only have a couple minutes to destroy these bodies and they’ll leave."

“Who’s left but the dead here?” Stumbling, he stepped back and let go of the shovel. It stayed in place and he bent over, hands on his knees. Breathing in heavily, he coughed hard for some moments. Geralt looked away, the knot in his gut cinched tighter. “Frankly, Witcher, I could care less,” he whispered. “Let the corpse-eaters take me too.” 

Clearing his throat, Geralt added softly, “Saw a boy earlier. Told me where to find you.”

“My son, Orly.” Nodding his head, the alderman straightened up, at least as far as his back would let him. “I fears he’s next. But only time will tell.” He turned toward him. “This plague’s highly contagious, Witcher. No one knows how long symptoms take to manifest once one catches it. It’s likely those who don’t even know they’re sick spread it like wildfire. How else could so many have...?” His voice trailed off. “This whole town.” His voice cracked with his next words. “My wife... So few left."

Inwardly, Geralt cursed. Cursed the world, the luck or lack of it, and any gods that might be listening. But the guttural growls, now accompanied by leaves rustling, twigs cracking, and branches creaking, stopped him short. The ominous noises captured the alderman's attention toward the tree line. Geralt, beside the man in a few quick strides, grabbed his wrist. He barely had any meat on his bones and loosened his grip. "There’s no time. Need to burn them now. Step away." 

The man stared in the direction of the trees, his drawn face paled to a shade that matched that of the color of death on the bodies piled in the grave before him. "By the gods!" he breathed in a ragged breath, wobbling on his feet. 

Gently, but firmly moving the older man back a few paces, Geralt pointed both hands inside the mass grave and fired a continuous line of flames from his fingertips, scorching all in its path. Within seconds, the bodies roared with red-hot fire and sizzled, thick black smoke billowed up from the ground, raced toward the sky, and wafted through the woods carrying with it a different kind of stench just as nauseating. The mass grave had become one giant roasting pit. The alderman watched in silence, his brown eyes red and wet with unshed tears. Stumbling, he fell to the ground on all fours, his sobs of grief lost in the roaring fire.

Another offensive odor alerted him. The grave taken care of, he whirled around and took two long strides towards the alderman. Across the way at the treeline, two hideous looking and just as foul smelling ghouls stepped into the clearing. The ghastly creatures walked on all fours, void of skin, their muscle structure, tissues and sinew clearly visible and those unlucky enough to lay eyes upon them were tortured by nightmares for years. In his experience, if a person came across such a macabre creature, vomited on site from the horror. The alderman proved no different. Yanking his kerchief down around his neck, he retched with powerful spasms onto the ground barely missing Geralt’s boots. The hideous creatures growled ferociously and snarled, revealing razor sharp teeth dripping with anticipation. 

The alderman shook at his feet, overcome with horror. With his free hand, Geralt tore a torch from the closest stake and tossed it on the ground on the far side of the alderman, between him and the ghouls. Gripping the hilt of his silver sword harnessed over his right shoulder, he unsheathed the deadly long blade. The shining silver-coated steel blade glinted reflecting the light of the fire behind them. 

One ghoul leapt at them followed by the other. Crouching down over the alderman, Geralt cast his magical shield around them both, its electrical charge igniting with a thunderous crack when the ghouls crashed into it. The creatures flung backwards from the force of the impact, stunned enough to shake their heads like a dog and gather their senses. Geralt used this time to help the alderman to his feet. Grasping the torch from the ground, he shoved it into the man’s shaking hand, then pushed him behind him. "They don't like fire. Use the torch if you have to, but stay as close to the grave as you can. They’ll come after me."

White faced, he nodded, scrambling towards the blazing burial pyre, his arms raised blocking his face from the scorching heat. Coughing now from the acrid smoke and putrid stench of burning hair and flesh, he tugged the kerchief up over his mouth and nose again.

Scanning the trees, Geralt expected more than two. Corpse-eaters traveled in packs of three or more and did not want to get caught off guard. With thick smoke layering the wood, a haze covered everything and he couldn't see beyond the closest tree line. He'd have to deal with any more later. The two creatures had regained their wits and made eye contact with him. Good.

They recognized him as the threat and would leave the alderman be. Raising his sword diagonally before him in a combat-ready stance, Geralt stalked a few paces closer to the ghouls leaving as much space between him and the alderman as possible.

Both ghouls leapt at him screeching horrifically. Dodging to the right, he sidestepped the first ghoul and swung his blade down in a blurring arc severing its head in one stroke. Its hideous form crumbled to the ground. Whirling, he parried, blocking the quick swipe of the other ghoul’s large hand bearing long and extremely sharp claws. With the blade, he shoved the arm aside and using its momentum, side-stepped in the opposite direction and sliced his blade across the ghoul’s exposed chest. Blood spurted everywhere. The ghoul shrieked, stumbled, and collapsed to the ground unmoving. 

Geralt remained in a combat-ready stance, his blade poised diagonally in front of him, peering into the woods, waiting for the others. None came. Turning slightly to the right, he scanned the trees and the clearing. Nothing. He turned the other way. The trees and brush still and blanketed in a smoky haze.

“Witcher,” the alderman called.

“Quiet,” Geralt hissed, angling himself again. Peering deep into the woods, he focused his keen hearing for any signs of additional corpse-eaters. The man froze and clamped his mouth closed, staying near the grave although the flames died down some. 

Prowling near the tree line, Geralt paced back and forth, remaining on guard, sword ready. These creatures, unpredictable, could leap out of nowhere. And they were fast. However, ghouls were the least of his worries. Alghouls and rotfiends, often not far behind, were a far more dangerous lot.

Slowly backing toward the alderman, Geralt remained facing the tree line. When he reached him, he untied a torch from another pole. “I’ll take you home in case we run into something else unpleasant.”

They headed through the woods toward the tavern, the alderman keeping up despite his clear exhaustion. They walked for several minutes neither one speaking, the dancing flames from the torches spitting and casting flickering shadows amidst the darkened trees. The foul odor of necrophages hung in the air. But that might have been the lingering stench of the two he had disposed of earlier.

“Witcher,” the alderman whispered urgently, “I’m grateful for your kindness, but you endanger yourself by being here. I - I could be infected and not know it yet. In a strange twist of fate, I am actually a danger to you.”

Making sure his facial expression remained neutral, Geralt furrowed his brows and did not say a word. The thought he could catch the plague didn’t shake him. However, the belief that he, the witcher, was a danger to him, sliced him deep. The innocent never needed to fear him. True, the witchers’ reputations had been tarnished over the last hundred years, and convincing them otherwise, still an uphill battle today. 

Strange, yet familiar noises, muffled by the smoky haze, carried through the trees. Geralt, still holding his sword, swung the torch in front of him. “Get back,” he ordered, raising the blade in a defensive stance. 

“What is it?” 

“Stay within the fire’s light, but far enough away from me. When the rotfiend clutches its throat making gurgling sounds, get back as far from it as you can.”

“Rot-rotfiends? By the gods,” he breathed. Geralt handed him his torch and the alderman backed away hiding behind a large tree trunk. 

The sounds grew louder and the witcher, poised and ready, held up his blade. Rotfiends looked similar to ghouls, only they walked on two legs like humans. Their oversized heads bore hideous large jaws dripping saliva everywhere. Strong shoulders and long arms made them exceptional fighters.

Through the darkened haze, one jumped at him with arms and claws extended. In an instinctive move, Geralt thrust the tip of his sword upwards and stuck the creature in its throat effectively halting its momentum enroute. The thing clutched the blade with both its slimy hands as it slid down the blade. Too close for comfort, the stench alone enough to make him pass out, Geralt pushed forward with the strength born from years of hard training and staked it to the nearest tree trunk. Turning the blade slowly, it twisted everything inside its esophagus. Gurgling, the necrophage made gagging noises and in a desperate flash, Geralt yanked free his blade and dove out of the way, just out of range. At the moment of death, the rotfiend combusted. Its blood, as venomous as a snake, could kill quickly. Geralt cast his magical shield around him as chunks of muscle, bone and blood sprayed in a large radius around him. The alderman, protected by the tree gasped in large breaths and shook uncontrollably. 

Rising to his feet, Geralt beckoned for him to come near. "They're gone now. Let's go." 

Reaching the road, several ghouls at the far end of town, scurried hunting for dinner elsewhere. Good riddance.

“What are the symptoms?” Geralt asked more in an effort to distract the alderman from thinking about what had just happened, than with a need to know. However, the information wouldn’t hurt. If this plague was as widespread as it seemed, he should be aware. “Same as the last epidemic?”

The alderman shook his head. “It’s different from the Catriona. First comes a high fever, then typical symptoms of the chest influenza, you know, coughing, sneezing, then great fatigue. My wife--” he stopped speaking clearly unable to go on for a few moments. Geralt remained silent, patiently waiting, giving him time, his eyes and ears pricked for any sign of more corpse-eaters nearby. The man continued after a few moments. “My wife’s body, gods rest her soul, burns in that grave you finished for me.” 

Geralt lowered his eyes for a moment and stillness settled around them except for the spitting of the torches. He met his brown eyes again barely visible beneath layers of grime, dirt, and shadows of exhaustion and worry. “Sounds like a typical influenza but how’d it kill most of the townsfolk?”

“That’s just it. It starts out like a normal flu. Before my wife had contracted the sickness, she noticed an unusual symptom. She had lost all sense of taste and smell. But we didn't think anything of it. Nasal congestion is all, you know. But once it sets in, the deadliest aspect of this plague…” The alderman raised a shaking hand to his forehead, taking a moment to compose himself. Sighing heavily, he continued in a soft voice. “All those poor folks suffocated because they couldn’t breathe. Their lungs filled up with fluid… they drowned in their own… They turned blue, then… they were gone.”

Geralt exhaled slowly, shaking his head. Shit. Sounded pretty bad. A pneumonic plague. Also explained the raspy breathing in the boy. “Truly sorry for your loss, sir.”

“Alric. The name’s Alric.”

He dipped his head in a polite nod. “Geralt of Rivia.”

Tired eyes red with strain and likely lack of sleep brightened for a moment. “Thought you might be. I’m honored to speak with the famous White Wolf. I’d shake your hand, sir, but it’s safer not to.” He looked genuinely embarrassed about it.

The witcher offered a slight smile instead. “You’re probably right, don’t worry about it.”

They had traversed out of the wood and a decent size thatch-roofed house up the way shed golden warmth from its windows. The boy's home.

“There’s my house.” Alric stopped and faced him directly. “Don’t come any farther, Geralt. Don’t risk yourself any more than need be. This world needs you far more than it needs us. I-- don’t have much. And I know witchers don’t work for free. I have some coin inside if you’ll hold on--”

“Not looking for coin.” He scanned the road in both directions and peered into the shadows between houses and foliage for any signs of hungry necrophages before returning his steady gaze back to Alric. “You didn’t hire me for a job. I came looking for information. And I got it." 

Pausing, he wrestled with the thought of telling Alric or not. He was a man of many skills and if he helped him out with one thing, he should be honest with him now. Especially concerning his son. Decision made, he made eye contact with the alderman, bringing the torch closer so Alric could see his face, read the sincerity in his eyes. “Orly isn’t well, Alric.” The village leader's face drained of all color. “If you have thyme and eucalyptus, grind them and make a decoction and have him inhale the steam. It helps lung function. You can also make it into a tea, for you both. Celandine is also a good medicinal plant and wouldn’t hurt. Get some rest.” 

Swiping the back of his hand across his eyes, Alric’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you, Geralt. If you won’t take coin - at least don’t walk away empty handed. If there is anything you need, take it. Just wash it before you use it. And… keep your hands clean.”

“Got it.” Glancing above the roof of the houses lining the street, the black smoke from the forest had dwindled. The stench of death and burnt flesh and hair dissipated as well. “Heading back home to Toussaint. Will inform Her Illustrious Highness of the conditions here as soon as I arrive. Take care of yourself.”

“Same to you, Witcher.”

Geralt stood in the middle of the dirt road holding the flickering flaming torch and watched Alric retreat back into his house. But before he closed the door, he caught a glimpse of Orly, eyes sunken in, dark circles rimming underneath long lashes. The boy smiled, but Geralt, unable to smile back, nodded once. Alric disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a full linen bag and tossed it into the yard. “Some food for you, Witcher. Please. It’s the least I can do.”

Nodding, he reached down and grabbed the bag, its weight more than he had expected. Alric was generous. When he glanced up, the door had closed. After a moment, he headed back to Roach patiently waiting. He mounted her easily with one hand on the saddle pommel, the other still holding the torch. 

Darkness had settled over the land and the night sounds typical at this time of year provided little comfort. Urging Roach on, she slowly walked down the road to the far eastern end of town. No other faces greeted him. Home upon home, dark and lifeless. The village blacksmith’s forge, the steady ring of the hammer upon the anvil, silenced, tools forgotten, now useless. Turning up the main road, he resisted the urge to slump his shoulders, but remained vigilant, his ears ready for any misplaced sounds warranting anymore unwanted guests.

He tugged on the reins, a gentle one, for that was all his faithful companion needed. Pausing before the tavern, the faint glow of a single candle shed its soft light through a window. Mesmerized by it, he stared, for no sounds emerged from within. Normally, the place would be crowded with townsfolk eager to drink and eat away the struggles of the day. Now, absent of the chatter of many conversations, drunken brawls, or even the smell of roasted chicken and potatoes, his stomach voiced its displeasure, teased by his thoughts. 

Sniffing involuntarily, the poetic justice of White Orchard dawned on him. Almost two years ago, at this very tavern, he had finally found Yennefer after six months of searching. Little did he know then that finding her had spurred him into a half-a-year-long search for Ciri, the displaced princess he had protected and trained in combat over a decade ago. She had grown up and needed his help again battling the Wild Hunt - for good. Then again, at this tavern, he had reunited with her after they had defeated the Hunt and her journey confronting the White Frost. Meeting her here that Yule had set them both upon another, uncharted path.

With a gentle snap of the reins, Roach clopped ahead. Eerily still, the tavern’s emptiness left a strange unsettling sensation in his gut. Now a plague ravaged the Continent and did this mean he was about to set forth on yet another life-changing journey? With a sixteen-month-old son and a wife at home, he certainly hoped not. For once, life had given him a blessing and by the gods, he was going to enjoy his new life. For all the help and sacrifice he had given mankind over the last several decades, he deserved it, damn it!

Shuddering, Geralt swallowed. The alderman and his son clung to the last threads of life. The boy would die by week’s end and Alric... Well, he may or may not outlive his son by only a few days. 

Although immune to poisons and diseases, witchers could catch viruses, however, their immune systems were far stronger than humans making it highly unlikely he would experience any symptoms. However, if what Alric mentioned was accurate, he could transmit the sickness to others.

Crossing over a wide white-stoned bridge over the Ismena River, Roach’s hooves clattered loudly in the unsettling stillness. To his right stood an abandoned guard tower. Soldiers would have kept watch here, but now, it stood empty and dark.

Shaking ominous thoughts from his mind, he spurred the mare on, past the apple orchard fields, their white blossoms illuminated by the rising moon's silvery haze. Such a stark contrast. The beauty of the orchards diminished by the emptiness of town and the darker, much darker reason why. 

He steered southeast towards Toussaint. It would take a month of long hard riding, but after what Alric had told him, perhaps he shouldn’t be in a hurry to get home. The possibility of carrying the plague to his loved ones bore too much risk and he would not bring this deadly sickness to his family. It was the last thing he wanted.

Catching a glimpse of red in the sky to the west, he stared above the barely visible tree line in the settled darkness. A glow spanning leagues illuminated the night sky in the distance. Another village on fire, or a forest fire? He shook his head. Reports of unusual heat this summer and a draught in Temeria must have been accurate.

Scattering sounds of tiny clawed feet and high pitched screeching up the way drew his attention. Scores of tiny red little eyes glared at him from beyond his torch’s radius of yellow light. Long pinkish tails protruded behind plump torsos. Rats. He spat to the side. Likely the carriers and they’d make their way into town as soon as he left. Made sense, though. Last year, he had trodden through battlefields littered with countless dead soldiers after the imperial army plundered its way north. The empire never bothered to clean up after themselves leaving that job to the downtrodden citizens of Velen. Understandably, many corpses ended up decomposing above ground. Rats, among corpse-eaters, feasted on the dead bodies and spread their waste all over the northern half of the Continent. Damn it. Rats and necrophages, the carriers of a virus mutated into a pneumonic one. Airborne, it’s wiping out villages at a time.

Jumping down from the saddle, Geralt gripped his fingers tightly around the reins and quietly cast his persuasion sign over Roach. Couldn’t have her panic and run off now. He shivered at the thought if that happened. 

Stepping before her, he waved the torch in front of him pointing it towards the ground. Scores of fat little brown rodents scurried backwards squealing their displeasure at the licking flames. Driving them away ahead of him, he dropped the reins and fired a volley of streaming flames from his fingers, back and forth, scorching the rodents that couldn't get away fast enough. Slowly, he walked, leading Roach, waving the torch in front of him until it was safe enough to mount her again. When he did, he gently nudged her flanks and she galloped leaving the fated town behind. 

Nilfgaard’s final invasion, famine, wildfires, infected rats, and a pneumonic plague. These signs of the times? Omens preceding the inevitable fate of the world? The very fabric of the northern kingdoms ripping at the seams. How would the emperor deal with all this while ruling his own empire? All of the mages, sorcerers, and alchemists fled Novigrad to the safe haven of Kovir over a year ago aided by friend and ally, Triss Merigold. The mighty hand of the Eternal Fire or Radovid’s witch-hunters would have had them all burned at the stake. Had any remained and stayed in hiding? Were there any here to combat this sickness either magically or scientifically? The Lodge of Sorceresses, or rather, what was left of them, had regrouped thanks to the emperor’s pardon for helping him defeat the Wild Hunt for Ciri’s sake. But the sorceresses were known only to help themselves. Would they even consider finding a cure? He shook his head. He had his doubts, but Yennefer and Chessa would be the best place to start. Yen could deal with the sorceresses. Regis would also help for certain. The three of them, each incredibly skilled magic users and alchemists, two of which resided at his estate. Regis was close by and often visited. These three... the best and most capable people he knew.

He had to get home fast, but shit, that's precisely what he must not do. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll post the 4ish chapters I have written already. Please comment if this SL should be continued. Thank you!


End file.
